


Erase, Rewind

by ivorytower



Category: Homestuck, Shadowrun
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shadowrun Setting with Homestuck Characters, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:37:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1249618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorytower/pseuds/ivorytower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years ago, everything went wrong. Now, thirty-two year old Dirk Strider sits in his crowded, messy apartment, cutting away pieces of his flawed humanity when an old friend, one Jane Crocker, asks him for a simple favour and a dark past, a terrible mistake, and a promise of a better future all collide in the decaying city of Seattle.<br/>~<br/>This story is set in the Shadowrun (RPG setting) universe using Homestuck characters. It has nothing to do with any of the plots from the RPG books or the games, and when I use Shadowrun terms, I'll do my best to define them if they aren't understood by context alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  


TT: Time.  
TT: It is twenty-one hundred hours and three minutes and thirty-six seconds.

It's getting late. This arm won't repair itself, though. It's a little fiddly, but you replaced your fingers first for a reason. Delicate, robotic, dextrous. The tiniest tools fit, the most precise tools. They're also the first to be upgraded and replaced when you work out something new.

Thumb and forefinger 6.0172; middle, ring, and pinky 3.2.

TT: Why do you feel the need to fix what isn't broken?  
TT: It is broken.

The easiest way to make improvements is to work on the spare. You always have a spare, sometimes two or three, to tinker and work on. If you make a mistake, you can always go back to the old version.

Erase, rewind.

TT: I get it. Seriously, I do. Meat-puppets and fleshbits are fallible. Breakable. They age. I don't see why you keep doing this to yourself.  
TT: You know that you'll replace me eventually, don't you?

The titanium-cord muscles need more work. It's always been a challenge, to balance strength and weight. No point in being seven hundred pounds. Nothing will hold you any more. Nothing will keep you from falling through the cracks or breaking the rusted stairway.

So you restrain yourself, a bit. Instead of replacing too much more, you replace the less efficient with what's better. Smaller, more compact, more powerful. Stronger code, more efficient code. No mistakes. No take-backs.

TT: I said I wanted a body of my own, but not like this.  
TT: You talk to my friends more than I do nowadays.

You press your lips together. Almost a frown, but it's concentration. Your face is still flesh and muscle and blood and ligaments. A flesh-face in front of a bone-skull and a flesh-brain. You haven't been practising as much as you should have been, but then, you haven't needed to.

No one is here to see you frown.

TT: That's your fault, you know it is. Talk to them, they love you.  
TT: What do either of us know about love?

You close the panel. You've never quite gotten the skin right, and in the end you don't mind. Somehow, the eerie-white suits you better than pale pink. It's flawless, smooth. Not on the fingertips or the palms, because that's one tiny concession you are willing to make to Nature's design.

Besides, plenty of gloves have grip too.

TT: You used to know. You used to know plenty. What about Dave? What about   
TT: That's enough. Do not speak to me, mark, from your acknowledgement to, mark, five minutes and zero seconds from this time. Do you understand?  
TT: Understood.

Good. _Good._ You hide that window and go back to the program Roxy built for you long ago. You could remember the exact time, because you know it, but you choose not to. You don't want to recall the exact number. The simple answer is 'a long time ago'.

It's time to test the new impulse management system.

You run the program. It goes through a series of electric impulses, first the randomized set it comes with as a default, and then, the part you added. The part you improved. You twitch your own fingers, and can feel your own electric impulses shoot up to your organic brain and into the plug at the base of your neck.

The computer takes your impulses and copies them into the program, then sends the impulses to the arm. It all takes fractions of a second. There's one more test, then. You move your fingers. Not of your current hand, but of the new one. Again, it takes fractions of a second.

Simple, perfect. Neatly done. Allowing for delay due to using the computer as a go-between, you're more efficient.

TT: It has been exactly five minutes.   
TT: What have you learned?  
TT: Jane has been trying to get your attention for the past four minutes and twenty-three seconds.

You frown. _What does Jane want?_

TT: What did you tell her?   
TT: That you put Baby in the corner.   
TT: What did she say to that?   
TT: That no one puts Baby in the corner.   
TT: Also, she wants you to come by and fix the industrial mixer at the bakery.  
TT: She could ask virtually anyone to do that.  
TT: Yes, but she wants you.  
TT: Fine. How soon?  
TT: At your convenience, but between you, me, and your cabinet full of arms, you should go now.

You sigh. It's hard to say no to Jane. You almost always regret doing so, and almost never regret saying yes. Jane usually doesn't try to remind you that you should be grateful to be a flesh-bag. She doesn't usually bring up subjects you don't want to discuss.

Even your own mind doesn't respect your wishes that thoroughly.

_Perhaps because you still haven't gotten over it._ Shut up, brain. You're next. _I swear you'll be next._

You deactivate the program, but not before you notice the test-arm was balling its fists. You unplug yourself and throw on a shirt. It's creased and a little dirty. You sigh, and go get a different shirt. Jane will notice if you haven't been wearing one recently. She always does.

She never says anything, but that tiny look of disapproval, the one that isn't for robot arms or just depending on dietary supplements or how you never talk to her unless she starts a conversation, but is instead for wrinkled shirts that have been on the floor for days somehow gets to you.

Even if she's faking it, you promised you'd make Jane smile and not frown. That was a long time ago too.

You throw on a jacket to cover the rest of your arms, and gloves that cover your hands. Fingertips are less notable than whole fingers. You flick up the collar of your jacket and grab your keys. You're always wearing boots, and your steps are unerring as you navigate through bins of parts and thick swathes of cord.

You turn off the one light in your apartment, and go through the door.

\--

It's raining a little outside. You aren't concerned. You've tested your integrity a dozen times, and every electronic part is safe up to insane depths and heights and heat and cold. The drops patter against your glasses.

Auto-Responder – or Dirk 2.0 – sifts through the information being sent to your personal network. Advertising. Polite queries and reminders from legal drones. Sometimes, though not often, messages from your friends. AR is talking to Jane.

She's working late again. Got to try new things. Got to keep the money flowing in. You know Jane could have owned the world and instead decided she wanted a bakery. Jane could have chosen any man or woman she wanted, but instead she stayed single. She took the hardest route.

Somehow, Jane still comes to you when she could go to anyone else to fix her mixers.

Using the most efficient route, it takes seventeen minutes and thirty-five seconds to arrive in the parking-lot of Crocker's Quality Baked Goods. You tuck your bike into one of the spaces that are specifically designed for bikes, right at the front.

She said it was better and more efficient than using up a car's space for a motorcycle. You know it was for you. You'd suspect a guilt trip, but no. Jane doesn't do that. She never does that. It was just a nice touch. A nice touch that brings you out to her bakery late at night.

It doesn't look like anyone is around. No late-night gang activity, no Corp sweeps. Just... nice and quiet. Jane's always had that gift. The gift of quietness.

You have the keys for the front door, so you let yourself in. You lock it after you. Jane's aura of calm will only protect her so much, or take her so far. The advertising hits your AR, and because he's either very thoughtful or extremely spiteful, he lets you see them. Perfect cakes glisten. Moist, round cookies sit in white-and-blue boxes. Cupcakes in their wrappers.

It reminds you that the last time you ate real food, it was the last time you saw Jane in person, which was... an indeterminate but lengthy period of time ago. You linger by the door, looking around at the quiet bakery. Memory nibbles but doesn't bite down.

“I'm in the back,” Jane calls. You knew that. You weren't waiting for permission to intrude on her aura. Not really.

You head to the back. Most places don't bother with real food, not any more. An infinite maze of imports, exports, processing, and repackaging satisfies the needs of the many. Jane isn't satisfied with that. Jane gets what can be grown locally, sometimes at great expense, and bakes it. Every person who works at her tiny little store knows to make things by hand. No prepackaged mixes. No frozen and thawed dough. Just a lot of work.

She's standing in front of the mixer, hitting it with a spoon. It whines. Her personal network opens to yours in greeting. Code does not feel. It's a string of letters and numbers. Nonetheless, the organic parts of you relax as her code greets yours. She's still safe. Soft, organic, weak flesh wrapped around something stronger than you.

“Dirk,” she says, and smiles. It goes all the way through her. The flesh around her eyes wrinkles, her eyes sparkle, her body turns towards yours. Your organic parts are thirty-two years, seven months, fifteen days, and twenty-two hours old, and she still makes you feel like you're fifteen and stupid.

“Hello, Jane,” you say. “You look good.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she says lightly. You want to insist that she does. That being soft and fleshy and weak suits her, but you don't need AR to tell you that you'll sound like a jackass. You say nothing more. “Now, about this mixer.”

You check out the mixer. Hitting it with a spoon didn't help it. It didn't make it worse, either. Jane gets a stool and watches you as you work. She doesn't mind when you take off your jacket and she can see the pale, metal parts of you. She doesn't mind when you take off your gloves, and open up your hands to get your tools. She doesn't frown at your shirt, which is clean and unwrinkled.

“Business is good?” you ask, because small talk is a thing. It's strange to use your voice, but you promised Jane you wouldn't use text unless you weren't in the same room. So many promises. They're easier to keep with Jane. Harder to break. You don't want to break them if you don't have to.

“Business is booming,” she says, and you know she's smiling without looking at her because AR is feeding you video from the edge of your shades. She seems relaxed, not fidgeting. She doesn't try to hide her worry from you. People usually do, even if they know about the camera.

“Good,” you say. “Any trouble?”

Hesitation now. “Not much. It's worse in the other neighbourhoods. You didn't run into any trouble, did you?”

“I can take care of myself, Jane,” you say. There's flour in the gears. You unscrew the edge of your pinky, and activate high-pressure air. You'll have to fill it when you get home. Compressed air is never out of demand.

“Oh, I know **that** ,” she says, and bounces her leg a little. “I just worry, that's all.”

“Don't worry about me,” you say. “Ever.”

“What if I can't help it?” If it were someone else, you'd think it was guilt, or pity. With Jane, it just is. She shouldn't bother. You closed that door a long time ago.

“You have better people to worry about,” you say, and half-turn, so you can see her. The camera shows you the mixer. “People like Chell.”

“Chell is out at a sleepover, that's why I'm here so late,” she says. “She asks, sometimes.”

Not guilt. Jane doesn't do guilt. Honesty. “What do you tell her?”

She looks at you, her face serious and solemn. “That the donor didn't want to be identified.”

Relief. “Thanks.” You return to the mixer, cleaning out the last of the flour. You notice that some of the bearings are worn. You put your hands in your pocket and find new ones. They live there, just in case. You'll refill those too. “Everything's on ice if she ever needs it.”

“I'll be sure to let you know.” She's quiet, watching you. It doesn't feel strange or intrusive. “What iteration are you up to now?” she asks after you straighten up. You put your hands back into place.

“My right arm will be on iteration 5.032,” you say. “My left will take a little more work. It always does.”

“It does,” she agrees. “You've been working hard.” You brush your knees off and stand, and then put your jacket back on, then gloves. Then you offer her your hand. You still remember how to do that. She takes it and hops off the stool, and you tuck her hand into the crook of your elbow. “Thank you. I'll see you out.”

“It's raining,” you say. Something glints from behind the partition. “I can drive you home.” You walk her out to the front of the bakery. With her free hand, the one you haven't captured, she runs her hands over the sparkling counters and the cred-scanning unit. She looks so proud of herself.

Like you, she built herself. Unlike you, she didn't have to change a bit. Weak and soft and fleshy and perfect the first time.

“I'd like that, my car is--”

Gunfire. It starts on the far side, shattering glass. The advertisements scream and go silent. You swore you'd never hurt her, but you don't need to think about it before you shove her back into the kitchen just before the gunfire hits you. You hear her hit the floor.

  
It doesn't hurt at first. It doesn't hurt until you hit the ground and your fluids leak onto her clean floor. It doesn't hurt until you see the torn ruin of your shirt. You wore a clean shirt just for her. It doesn't hurt until you realize they're still coming and the alarms are going off, piercing deep into your skull.   


When it hurts, your mind screams in pain-fear-anger. When it hurts you try to turn yourself over. You've never liked guns, not really. Guns are for criminals. For Runners. Your katana is for an artist. It was **his** a long time ago. It's yours now. You have it but you can't reach it.

It hurts to hear Jane screaming into her phone, in fear, in anger. You can hear the other person through the alarms and the shouting and the sound of crunching glass.

“\--he's modded,” Jane is saying. She's crying. _Don't cry for me, Jane._ “I think he's dying, please, help!”

“You need to tell us how extensive the mods are. Is it more than 75%?” asks the other person on the phone. A man. Calm.

It's 68%, because there were parts you still needed. Needed for yourself, needed for her.

The footsteps are getting closer and you can't move. Your torso was always more vulnerable. Harder to work on, but the bottom half is internally replaced. You weren't supposed to be weak any more! You were supposed to be stronger than before.

...stronger than when...

  
They kick you as they step over you. They step on your broken parts and your fluids. They walk right over you to get to Jane. You hear her scream into the phone to send help for you.    
  
__  
Jane, oh Jane...   
  
  
You hear them hit her, once, twice. You hear her go silent.   


You hear the man on the other side of the phone call out for her as they walk back over you. Three kicks, one step. The one that didn't kick is carrying her. You want to die. You want to shut down. You're numb. You want to turn off the emergency protocols that are stopping you from doing either of those things.

TT: You fucking tool, don't turn them off.   
TT: Let me die.   
TT: I failed. I failed her. I failed at everything.   
TT: I'm taking away your control.   
TT: You're hysterical.   
TT: Also, fucking stupid.   
TT: Why are they taking her?   
TT: You know why!  
TT: No, I don't, I  
TT: YOU KNOW. THIS BRAIN KNOWS. YOURS DIDN'T FORGET, YOU IDIOT. YOU COWARD.  
TT: NOW STOP TRYING TO DIE.  
TT: I want to.  
TT: YOU DO. I DON'T. NOW FUCKING SHUT UP.  
TT: The beacon is on. Someone is coming soon.  
TT: Hold on. Just hold on.

You don't have much of a choice. You hold on. You don't have to be awake for this, but you do hold on.

_Jane..._   



	2. Chapter 2

  
_Ten Years Ago..._

“So, it's just this one last job,” Dave says, adjusting his shades. You look at your younger brother and shrug. Your back is tired from carrying around so much equipment. You can't help but look at your right hand, the one you replaced. It's so efficient.

You wonder what it would be like to have a whole arm like it. A whole back. Even your whole--

“How many times have you said that before, cutie?” Roxy asks. She has her arms folded over her chest. Her ears twitch, taking in sounds. Long and tapered and pale as the breeze ruffles through her blonde hair. As alert to the street as she is to the Matrix. Gathering and sifting and absorbing, a black hole of data.

She likes to think of herself as elite. You once called her an octopus. A cecaelia. She smacked you.

“This time, I mean it,” Dave says. He turns and grins at you. “One last Run, and it's easy-street.”

“So let's meet with this guy,” you say. Impatient. “Why waste time?”

“No time to be wasted at all,” you hear from behind you. Your eyes widen, you turn around. It's--

\--

_Now._

Beep. Beep beep. Beep beep beep.

You're not dead. Disappointing. You open your eyes.

Roxy is sitting on a chair by your bed. Information is scrolling through her visor. She's thin and bony, but she isn't modified. Not one little bit. Not like you, and just like--

“Dirky, baby, what the fuck?” she asks. Her voice is soft, which means she's angry. When she's happy her voice is loud, all over the place. She drinks a little harder than she should. You can't blame her, not really. Her AI pal gets a little bitchy, though. Rose is such a snob for something born out of the Matrix.

“Jane...” you say. You close your eyes again. They shouldn't have woken you up. She hits you. Eyes open again. “Roxy, what the fuck?”

“I asked you first,” she says, her voice low and tight. “What the fuck happened?”

“Some guys shot up Jane's bakery and took her,” you say. “Should be obvious.”

“You were there,” she says. “Why were you there?”

“She needed me to fix something,” you say. “I couldn't save her.”

“God-fucking-damnit, Dirk,” she says. She's still mad. Mad about Dave. About Jane. “The cops are here.”

“Good, they'll find her,” you say. You remember. “Chell?”

“She's here, she's asleep,” Roxy says, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Wore herself out crying.”

“She shouldn't be here,” you say. “She should be with John or--”

“She's worried sick about Janey, and she's worried sick about her **Dada** too.”

No. Jane said. She **promised**. “She doesn't know. She can't know.” 

“How many fucking people have her orange eyes, Dirk? She's a smart girl, she figured it out,” Roxy hisses. “Jane wouldn't confirm it for her, but I sure as fuck did.”

“I'll tell her you're lying,” you hiss back. “She shouldn't have to deal with--”

“Aunt Roxy?”

You freeze. You're pretty sure your lower half is in pieces, but you freeze anyway. Her voice comes from the other bed. Somehow, 'she's here, asleep' didn't translate to 'she's here, asleep in the same room'. The bed shifts and creaks, and you hear her walk towards you, around your bed, to Roxy.

You've only seen her three times.

The first time, she was just a baby. Jane made you promise you'd come and see her. She said you didn't have to touch her, and you didn't. She said you didn't have to name her, and you didn't. She did say you had to see her. She was small and fleshy and red. She was asleep. Her head-fuzz was dark and you never got to see her eyes.

The second time, she was three. You had two modded arms and Jane needed you to move her fridge. You'd come by late, hoping that she'd be asleep. She sneaked up on you in little, one-piece pajamas, blue like a summer sky, messy hair, and amber eyes. You told her to go back to bed. She said she was thirsty. You poured her a little water and she drank it. She introduced her to her bunny, Sebby, and said goodnight.

The third time wasn't even her, it was a picture from Jane's network feeds. She turns them off when she invites you over, but that one time she forgot. She was dressed up for her dance lessons. She's going to be a dancer, Jane told you. She was so proud. You don't even know if Chell still dances. Kids change their minds constantly.

Dave had wanted to be an actor. Roxy had wanted to be a wizard. You had wanted to be human.

Only Jane had become what she had wanted at that age. _Jane..._

“Sorry, doll, did we wake you up?” Roxy asks, and pulls Chell into her lap. Chell hugs her tightly. She's dark-skinned, like her mother. Her hair is dark and curly. Long, tied into messy pigtails. A little blue dress. White socks. Sebby's ears clutched in one fist as she wipes her eyes with the other.

“I'm not sleepy,” she says, and looks up. The light catches her eyes. Amber is shifting to orange. You hope that she's planning on getting shades, because she'll need them. Light hurts. It always hurts. She turns to you. “Hi.”

“...hi,” you say. Her face reminds you of Jane's. She's so young that it's still finding itself, but you don't think it will have to try hard. “Chell.”

“You're my Dada,” she says. Not a question. Not an accusation. Just a fact. You nod. “You were with Mama before they t-took her.” She's trying not to cry. You reach over, even though your body screams and your network reminds you that you're in pieces. Your life is in pieces. You brush her cheek. It's wet, and she's startled. Your hands are probably too cold to comfort anyone now. You start to pull away.

“Yeah,” you say. “It was my fault. I couldn't protect her.”

Roxy glares at you over Chell's head. Chell takes your hand before you can pull it all the way back. She puts it on Sebby's head. “Promise you'll find her,” she says. “Promise Sebby you will.”

You've never broken a promise to Jane. Not once. “I will find your Mama, and bring her home to you,” you promise. “She's going to be okay.”

Chell nods and leans forward as she hugs you, because she believes you. Well, now you have to do it. You put your arms around your little girl and hug her back. You failed Jane. You won't fail her daughter. **Your** daughter.

“First things first,” Roxy says after you let go. “You need to get fixed up. They did what they could, but someone doesn't use standardized parts. So they did what they could.” She can't yell at you with Chell awake, but she sounds like she wants to. You feel like you're using a little girl as a shield. She's still trying not to cry. She's eight fucking years old, she should not need to deal with your bullshit. That was the whole point of her never knowing.

You sigh. “Let me contact Equius. He'll be fast and he doesn't ask a lot of questions.”

She nods, and says, “Oh, and the cops want a statement.”

You sigh. You'd argue, but... “Fine.”

\--

It takes another hour for the cops to finish with you. The cop is a Dwarf. He's short and ruddy and pissed off. Vantas. Karkat Vantas. He listens to you explain over and over again, one eye on Chell as she pets her bunny and murmurs to it quietly.

He doesn't ask any questions about Chell. Thank fuck for that.

“And you don't have any idea what this is about?” he asks again. “Any motivation for us?”

_Yes_ , you think. “No,” you answer. “No idea at all.”

He says he'll be in touch. He ruffles Chell's hair, and she smiles for him, just a little. The door closes. Roxy's on the phone outside, he stops to talk to her briefly as it swings closed.

“Dada,” Chell says. Your gaze goes to her.

“Yeah?” you ask. You wonder what you should call her. You should tell her not to call you that, not where someone could hear, but you're alone right now.

“I can fix you,” she says. She digs around inside Seb's back and pulls out a plastic screwdriver and some over-sized plastic screws. “I been practising.”

You want to cry. You want to laugh. You want to die. “Ask Equius if you can help when he's here,” you say instead. “Do you still dance?”

She nods. “Wanna see?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Show Dada how you dance.”

She does. It's clumsy. It's a lot of twirling and you think she's supposed to have a ribbon. It makes your heart ache. She shouldn't be crying. She shouldn't have needed to cry a day in her life. When she gets tired she stops, smiles, and comes to your bedside.

“How's school?” you ask. You don't know what to say to this girl except that you're sorry you're here and her mother isn't. You pretend it's a visit.

“Good,” she says. “Jimmy pulled my hair at recess.”

“Did he?” you say. “What did you do when he did that?”

“I **hit** him,” she says, as if it's obvious. “It was **rude**.”

“Of course it was,” you murmur. You reach out and wrap a curl around your finger. You tug a little. She makes a face at you. The scrunchiest face. You laugh a little, startled.

“Why is there a child here?!” you hear, and you both look up. Equius.

\--

_Ten Years Ago..._

“Jake?” you say, surprised. “You're our Mister Johnson?”

“Sorry I have to be all cloak and dagger about this,” he says, and gives you a big smile. He puts an arm around your waist and squeezes. Roxy smirks. Dave raises an eyebrow. You ignore both of them. You lean in and kiss him softly. “Mm, missed you too, old chap,” he says with a smile. “Come, let's head inside. I know a lovely little cafe.”

He leads you all to a little cafe. It's nice, open-air and light. He takes you to a table that already has one person sitting at it. She's wearing a blue sun-dress and a hat.

You're twenty-three years old, and Jane Crocker still makes you feel fifteen and stupid.

“Meet your client,” Jake says. He sits down, and reaches over to take Jane's hand, kissing it. She blushes and smiles at him.

Fifteen and stupid. So very, very stupid. “Hi, Jane.”

“Dirk, Roxy, Dave,” she says. “It's so good to see you all. I would have come to you directly, but Jake thought it might be better to do this more officially.”

“It sure is,” Roxy says. Text spills across your network:

TT: Good afternoon, Ms. Crocker. Mr. English. It is a pleasure to meet you.  
TT: And mine as well.  
GG: Hello to you both... you'll be able to hear us fine?  
TT: Yes, Ms. Crocker.  
TT: Yes, Ms. Crocker.

Jake takes out a stick of circuitry the size of his thumb and plops it on the table, activating it. You wince as it activates. Anti-eavesdropping field.

“Where do you want to start, Janey?” Jake asks lightly. His hand is still on hers. So stupid.

“At the beginning,” she says, and squares her shoulders. She looks at each of you, her expression serious and earnest. “I want out of Crocker Corp.”

\--

_Now._

Equius Zahhak is a troll. His parents, creative people that they were, named him basically 'a whole bunch of horses'. He's huge and strong, and specializes in very big equipment that makes things explode.

He's fixing your torso and showing your daughter how to work on your fluid systems.

“Do you remember which one goes there?” he asks. His teeth are jagged and broken, like one of his horns. His glasses are cracked. He looks like he shouldn't work on anything smaller than an auto-cannon.

“That one needs the L-piece, and that one **there** needs the titanium screws, shit, fuck,” Chell says proudly. Equius flushes, which you didn't think was possible considering how dark he was, and how little shame he actually has. Roxy chuckles.

“Chell,” you say, trying not to do the same. “Those aren't technical terms. That's rude language.”

She rolls her eyes at you. Jane's never done that. You're not usually that expressive. Somehow she inherited Dave's attitude. Fucking genetics, how do they work? “I know **that**.” 

“You're making Mister Zahhak blush,” you say. “Apologize.”

“I'm **sorry** , Mister Zahhak,” she says. “But those are the ones you need.”

“You're correct,” he says, clearing his throat. “You can screw this one in, but you must be careful.”

“I will!” You watch as she helps piece you back together. Roxy watches too. She's still mad, you can feel it, but she's softening. Chell is too cute to be resisted.

You think, briefly, that Dave would have liked her. His niece. Your daughter. Jane's daughter.

Roxy pings your private network. You sigh, and answer.

TG: so were u lyin 2 ur girl?  
TT: No. I didn't want to be involved before, but I have to be now. I promised her I'd find Jane and I will.  
TG: no more tryin 2 die then?  
TT: How do you  
TT: AR.  
TT: If you thought that I wouldn't tell her about your suicidal and self-pitying impulses, you'd be wrong as well as stupid.  
TT: You scared the hell out of me.  
TT: Sorry.  
TT: You're not-- never mind. Just never mind.  
TT: If we're doing this, we're going to need crew, you realize.  
TT: No. No more people are getting involved.  
TG: u have 2 tell john  
TG: th cops will call him n e way  
TT: He's probably busy with a gig or something.  
TT: Actually, I have contacted Mr. Egbert and he is presently in the immediate area. He is staying at the Waterfront Hotel in room 307.  
TG: tks rosie  
TT: Any time, Ms. Lalonde.  
TT: At this rate, it will probably take another three hours for Equius to be done, and Chell should be fed, or take a nap, or whatever.  
TG: we can pick up somethin on the way 2 johns hotel  
TT: She's not staying involved with this. It's too dangerous.  
TG: u r the stupidest smart person i kno  
TG: shes marked dirk  
TG: shes marked an johns marked and ur marked  
TG: im marked 2  
TT: Fuck, Roxy.  
TG: y didnt u help her b4?  
TT: She didn't tell me she needed help! As far as I knew, the worst thing that happened to her was her mixer wasn't working.  
TG: she didnt tell u ab the calls?  
TT: Calls? What calls?!  
TG: oh  
TG: shit


	3. Chapter 3

_Ten Years Ago..._

“Janey...”

Jane sits up a little straighter, her expression serious. “It should come as no surprise to any of you, but Crocker Corp is involved in some very alarming dealings. Extremely shady, morally bereft. I have no realistic hope of taking down the Corp itself. It's too large, too well-entrenched. So, I want out. I will not be party to this any longer.” She looks to Jake again, and then back at us. Her jaw is soft and round, but her expression is hard. “I want a career and a future that I can be proud of.”

“Sucks, Jane,” Dave says. “Yeah, we can do that. Now, and I'm sorry, but we do have to discuss fees.”

Roxy kicks him, but Jane nods. “I understand. Runners need their money too.” She takes out a cred-stick and sets it on the table, flicking it so it displays its quantity. Dave whistles softly. Even Roxy stares.

“That will include Jake's agent fee,” Jane says, and her smile is a little shaky. “If I've done the math correctly, that will be everything left over after my deposit for my new bakery.”

“Janey...” Roxy says, her eyebrows furrowed. “That's everything you got.”

“I'm well aware,” she says, and tries to sound light about it. “Oh, Roxy, it's **bad**. You have no idea **how** bad. I don't want to get into too many of the details, since all you need to do is get me out of the system and get me a new SIN.”

“Jane,” you say, running your finger along the cred-stick. “You know what you want is completely illegal, right? Not like bumming around with the criminal elements of the under-city isn't, but still--”

She looks at you, stubborn, unshaking even though she must be afraid. “Sometimes, you have to break the law to do what's right.”

“Okay, then,” you say and smile at her, just a little. “Let's hear it.”

\--

_Now._

Roxy is an elf. Tall, too thin to be healthy, too angular to be all the way pretty. With someone like Roxy, you'd expect her to drive something small, sleek, stylish. Subtle, since subtlety is her speciality in the Matrix.

Roxy Lalonde drives a giant, fuck-off hot pink pick up truck with enough room for four people to sit on her off-white seats and a covered back. She unlocks the doors, and you open one and boost Chell up into the cab. You haul yourself up and sit down, buckling up.

Roxy supervises Chell's belting in silence.

“We should go by the bakery and pick up my bike,” you say. “That way--”

“Do you have a kiddie helmet?” Roxy asks, drumming her fingers on her steering wheel briefly, and then pulling out of her spot. “Or bullet resistant windows or armouring?”

You frown. “No, but--”

“Then you will sit your ass in my tank, shut up, and let me drive,” Roxy says. You wonder when it was that she slept last.

“Language, Aunt Roxy,” Chell says, fake-prim. Roxy goes from glaring at you to eyeing your daughter. You give Roxy a little smile.

“If it weren't for Aunt Roxy's bad language, she wouldn't have any language at all,” Roxy says, and takes a moment to ruffle Chell's hair. “We're gonna pick you up some dinner, and then we're going to go see your Uncle John, okay?”

“Okay!” Chell says. “Can we pick some up for M-- Dada, too.”

_For Mama,_ you hear. Roxy ruffles her hair again. “Sure thing, doll.”

You spend most of the trip staring out the window and feeling Chell lean against your side. She's warm and a little squirmy. Sebby sits on her lap, and she talks to him, explaining that everything's going to be alright.

Roxy keeps up a steady, drumming beat, the only real noise other than Chell's voice. You watch the buildings go by, and feel the advertising bounce off of your filters. It's getting late again, but the lights are never off. Datascrawls reflect off of your shades, though nothing is all that important. Ostensibly, you're keeping watch. In reality, you see virtually nothing.

The shadows are gathering. You thought you'd put them behind you.

Shadowrunners are mercenaries. Hired by contacts, Mister or Ms. Johnsons, and you're given a goal. You're given a paycheque. In theory, you and your crew get in, get the job done, get out, get paid, go out for drinks.

Reality is never, ever, that simple.

You fail to notice that Roxy's ordered food until she dumps the bag on your lap, and Chell immediately starts digging in the bag for fries. You start a little, and let her take them. She's probably hungry, and it's just fries.

“You really didn't know, did you?” Roxy says. Less drumming now. You nod a little. “Sorry. I honestly thought she told you.”

“I try to stay out of her life,” you say. “She keeps bringing me back to it.”

“She was worried about you,” Roxy says. “She worried about a lot of things, a lot of people, but she was worried as hell about you.”

“She shouldn't have been,” you say, and notice Chell is watching you. You put your hand on her head. “Tell me about the calls.”

“Started two months ago,” Roxy says. “At first they were quick ring and drops, but sometimes, they'd be pick ups and then... silence. Silence until she hung up. She asked me to start tracing them. They were easy to track, but the problem is, no two ever went to the same place. I looked for patterns. Nothing. I looked for messages in the numbers. Nothing.”

“That sounds like stalker behaviour,” you say, and frown. “Didn't she go to the cops?”

“She tries to avoid the cops,” Roxy says. “Old habits die hard. At the beginning of the month, they started saying things. Sometimes, only one word, but it was enough for her.”

“What did they say?” you ask. She looks briefly at Chell.

“That the sins of the mother pass on to their children.”

_Fuck._

\--

_Ten Years Ago..._

As secret bases go, this one is pretty embarrassing. For one thing, secret bases should be dark and mysterious. Well-concealed.

Jane owns a white house with a picket fence and a tree in the back yard. The tree has a tire swing.

It's a nice place, small but cozy, but you know it's worth three times as much as the shitty apartment you and Dave share simply because it's clean. It's in a nice neighbourhood. It's not Corp central, but it's not exactly the Barrens either.

“Cookies are almost done,” Jane says, and waves you to sit. You get your boots off, because you know they're grubby and street-gross, and you take your jacket off and hang it up. You'd take off the rest of your clothes if you could, and probably your skin.

You don't fit into Jane's neat little house and her neat little life. You never will, but you can pretend for her sake, if not your own. “You didn't need to do all this for me,” you say and sit down at her table. She smiles over her shoulder at you, and then goes back to making tea.

“I enjoy it, and it's going to be my career, after all,” she says, her voice light. “Once you help me out.”

“We will,” you promise. “Roxy's doing some digging, and Dave's doing some recon. Are you sure you don't want John involved too?”

“I only rarely consider John to be my half-brother, but this is one of those times,” Jane says, her voice firm. You remember she and John share a father, and that she kept her mother's name, while John took their dad's. In a way, you wish you had even that much, but you don't. All you and Dave have is each other, and a stupid, cocky name. Strider.

You push it aside. “So he doesn't have a Corp SIN?”

“No,” Jane says. “He's quite safe. At least, that's the hope, but nonetheless, I don't want to get him involved.” She passes you a cup of tea. It's never really been your thing, but you drink it anyway because it's real and not synth. She has the weirdest, if not expensive, taste.

“I know you don't want to talk about it,” you say, and sip at the tea as she bustles around. “But what happened to make you pull out. You were always...”

“Going to try to change it from the inside?” Jane fishes, and sets the cookie tray down. You watch her put the cookies on a cooling tray, and fan them a little. “I can't change Crocker Corp,” she says. “The corruption is too deep, too buried.” She sighs. “It feels like giving up. It feels like surrender.”

“Hey,” you say. “There's nothing wrong with jacking out when the heat gets to be too much.” She looks at you with those big, blue eyes. “If nothing else, I've still got your key.” You wear it on a long chain so it hangs just over your heart, and it won't slip out. You fish it out and let it rest on your metal palm.

It's ornate and small, no bigger than the pad of your thumb. She looks at it, but she doesn't touch it.

“I'd wondered...” she murmurs, but nods. “Standing and fighting will only get more people hurt. I do still have to thank you, though. This means the world to me. More than money can ever repay.”

“You don't have to pay us that much,” you say. “At least, not me. It's not like I don't need money to pay the bills, but everything you've got?”

“I'm going to be closing that account down completely and starting up a clean one, once I'm safe,” she says, and takes a few cookies to put on a plate for you, then takes some herself. You let AR tell you they're too hot for human skin just now, and bite into one anyway.

Chocolate has never been your thing either, but it's molten and delicious anyway. Also, it burns your mouth.  _Good job, dumbass._ “Good stuff, Jane,” you say instead. “What happens once you're out?”

“You remember what I told you, all those years ago?” she asks, and you do.

“You want a bakery, and a family, and maybe a cat, and a white picket fence,” you say. “You've got the fence.”

“The house actually came with chain link originally, I had them take it down and put up the white fence,” Jane says. Another person would have done it for 'irony'. Dave would have. Jane did it because... “It just spoils things if you don't have the right fence.”

“Of course it does,” you say. “What about that family thing?” You drink some more tea.

“I'm going to have a child.”

You nearly spit the tea back out. “Are you--?!”

“I'm not pregnant, if that's what your asking,” Jane says, her voice light. “I'm going to get a donor, or, if I find someone...”

“You just let me know when you want me to give your key back,” you say. “It's your heart, after all.”

\--

_Now._

John's pretty much never maintained a poker face in his life. So when he answers the door, he smiles at Roxy, gives you a look like he scraped you from his shoe, and then scoops up Chell.

“Hey there, pumpkin!” he says. You look at Roxy, and she jerks her head towards John and then follows. You have promises to keep, so you head inside and lock the door behind you.

John didn't rent so much of a hotel room as a suite. It's huge, far too big for one person, and expensive as hell. There's a kitchenette, and that's where you take the food, to unwrap from greasy wrappers and dump onto plates. Chell ate most of your fries. You put more on her plate.

If your body rejects food after having not eaten for so long, you're going to be hella embarrassed.

“Uncle John!” Chell squeals, and you half turn around. He's got her dangling by her ankles, so you can see her little shorts that she wears under her dress. You frown, and take a step forward. He's got her close to the ground, and you realize she's hand-walking along the carpet, giggling.

Even that sounds a little ragged, a little tired. It's been a long day for her, and it's not even close to over. He lets her down, and she cartwheels, wobbly, but sticks the landing.

“You'll be ten feet tall before you know it,” John tells her. He turns to the adults in the room. “Roxy... Dirk.”

“Johnny boy,” Roxy says, and gives him a brief hug. He hugs her back. John is tall like Roxy, and built thick and muscular. He tends to hide it, though, behind fancy jackets and rolled up dress shirts. Behind clown noses and comedy acts and 'nothing in my hat, nothing up my sleeves' tricks.

Stage magician by day, Street Magician by night.

You hand Chell her plate and tell her to sit at the table with it. Sebby sits with her, where she 'feeds' him fries that disappear into her own mouth, and lets Sebby babysit her toy. Roxy gets her plate from you and sits on one of the couches, balancing it in her lap. You stay at the counter, and eat out of a wrapper.

Equius pretty much only wears black, so that's what you're wearing. A black sleeveless plus black jeans, both too baggy on a human, with black gloves and black boots and black shades.

_And a black soul..._

“Got a call from the cops,” John says, starting us off. “They said Jane's been taken.”

“Dada's gonna get Mama back,” Chell says from the table. You watch as John's stare goes from her to you. John Egbert can't poker face worth shit. The look he's giving you is one that wants to flay your skin from your bones.

“I'm sure he is, pumpkin,” John said. “Maybe he can tell me what happened?”

You look at Chell. “She called me over to fix the mixer at the bakery,” you say, shortly. “We were heading out when someone attacked us. They left me for-- injured, and took Jane. I'm going to find her and bring her home again.”  _Then you don't have to see me again._

“Is this related to... last time?” he asks.

You nod slightly. “Think so. Which means we need to work fast.”

“We need to not fuck this up,” Roxy says sharply. “Not like last time when we all ran off half-cocked.”

“We all know whose fault that was,” you say. They're quiet. There's nothing more **to** say. “Roxy says we're marked. Did you know about the calls?”

“Yes,” John says. “She told me about them during our evening talk. I wanted her to stay with me for a little while and bring Chell along. That didn't happen.”

“So everyone knew but me,” you say, and you can feel yourself growl. John tries to flay your skin off again and fails.

“You didn't want to be involved,” he reminds you. He's right, you didn't, but...

“She still could have told me,” you say. “I would have tried to fix it.”

“You would have--” John snaps, or starts to, and Roxy shakes her head. It's not that Roxy wants to defend you. You know that. It still feels a little good anyway as she jerks her head towards the kitchen table.

“He promised Chell,” Roxy says, and you nod.

John can't poker face for love or money. Fortunately, on stage, he doesn't need to. People love a friendly goofball.

“Then the three of you can stay here,” John says. “But you'll need to pick up your own gear.”

“I'll go by Janey's house and pick up some more stuff for Chell,” Roxy says. “We can go together, and--”

“No,” you say. “You go pick up her stuff and my bike, but drop us off at my place.” Roxy and John eye you, and you smile. Just a little. “I'm going to go retrieve my arms.”


	4. Chapter 4

_Ten Years Ago..._

“Okay, we've got a plan,” Dave says. Unlike you, he doesn't bother to take his boots off when he comes strolling through Jane's house. You watch Jane frown. It's just a little frown, but it's a frown nonetheless. He's tracking in street-filth onto her nice floor.

“Dude, at least take your shoes off,” you tell him. He tips his glasses down and raises an eyebrow. “It's not your house.”

“Yeah, okay, Dad,” he says, and flops down on the couch, and puts his feet up on the table. You probably would have done better to dare him to see how messy he can get the place before he gets kicked out. Dave is contrary as fuck.

He's wearing a big, red trenchcoat, like something out of an old show you used to watch as kids. Now that you think of it, it's got the same pattern of buckles and straps on it, and he's got the same long, buckle-belt boots as that guy, but that guy was a gunman. Dave's got a sword.

Street Samurai suits Dave just fine. Up close and personal, slugging it out with the people, pretending he doesn't give a shit when he does. But seriously, he's making a mess. You walk over to the table and pull it back a little. “Feet are for floors, not tables,” you say, then sit next to him and muss his hair. He slaps back at you, and you spend five minutes strifing on Jane's couch.

Her floor isn't any less dirty, but now she's smiling again. She brings you more cookies and tea.

“Thanks, Jane,” Dave says. “You're the best.” He eats fast and not neatly. You remember not to eat that way at Jane's place, just in case she starts thinking you're starving yourself – you're not, it's just that food is a golden opportunity not to be wasted – but Dave never bothers.

Of course, Dave isn't trying to impress or please anyone. You, on the other hand...

“So, what do you have for me?” Jane asks, and it sounds brisk and businesslike. He grins at her, and then licks chocolate off of a tooth.

“It looks like they're doing a maintenance dump on obsolete files in two days' time,” he says, and takes a swig of tea. If he makes a face, you'll kick him. He does and you do. He tries to slap you again, and you jab him. Not now. “So between Rox and Dirk, they can get into the sorting program and dump your info along with the garbage. They'll incinerate it themselves. It's in their best interests to do it correctly, so it should be gone before they even notice. Then you'll be home free.”

“Fantastic,” Jane says, smiling at both of you. “Are you staying for dinner?”

“Shit yes,” Dave says. “Free food.”

“No, he should go,” you say. He glares at you. You glare back. She laughs.

\--

_Now._

“Woooooooow cooooool,” Chell says as you let her in. Immediately, she nearly stumbles over the jumble of footwear right by the door. Then again when she has to squeeze through the piles of equipment, parts, and tools you keep everywhere.

You realize more so than ever before that you live in a shitty dive and it's no place for a well-brought up little girl. “Sorry, pumpkin. Be careful.”

“That's Uncle John's name,” Chell says, looking up at you with Dave-like disdain. Mostly, those scars are healed. Mostly, it doesn't hurt to poke and prod and scratch at them any more. Mostly, but not completely. You try to focus on what she's saying next, which is, “Mama's name is Princess, and Aunt Roxy's is doll. So you have to come up with one of your own!”

“You're picky about your nicknames, aren't you?” you say, but you smile a little. She's found the clear path, and arms out, balancing like she's on a narrow ledge, she makes it through to your rig.

“Wow,” she says again, looking it over. It's big and elaborate and running more processing power than a small country. Like your modded body, it's custom-built. You're going to need to pack it up. She turns. “You really do have a bunch of arms!”

“I sure do,” you say. You point. “I'm always working on ways to make them better too. Stronger, better, more efficient.”

“Like making a really good recipe.” She pokes at your mouse, and peers at the desktop. Almost immediately, a window pops up.

TT: Hello, Ms. Crocker. It seems you have taken an interest in the rig of Mister Dirk Strider. Please note that sensitive information is restricted.

“Cooool,” she says. She turns to you and asks, “Who's that?”

“That's my Auto-Responder,” you say. “You can call him AR.”

“Oh, is he like Aunt Roxy's friend Rose?” she asks. You smile a bit, and direct her away from the rig, and dig out an old laptop. You turn it on and sit her down with it.

“Kind of. Same idea, a person in a machine,” you say. “I need to pack that up, but he can access any machine in here. I'll show you how to set up your own client.”

“Okay!” she says. It takes you a minute, mostly due to old hardware that's a little bit pissed off about being woken up, but you bring up the prompt for her.

“Put your name in there,” you say.

\-- Your name is now ChellCrocker [CC] --

“Sure, that'll be fine,” you say. You'll teach her about dubious anonymity on the 'net another day. “You can pick a colour too.”

“I want yellow!” she says, and picks a bright, gaudy shade.

“Why yellow?” you ask, and she smiles.

“It's my favourite!” she says, tapping the bright square on the screen. She frowns. “It's hard to read.”

“Not blue?” you ask, noting her dress. “It suits you.”

“Blue,” she says like you're an idiot, “is Mama's colour. Orange is yours. So, yellow!”

Holy ever-loving shit. “Okay, let me take a look. Here.” You pick a shade of yellow that's darker, though not as nice. “Use that, you should be able to read it now.”

She gives you a disbelieving look, and starts hunting around the keyboard. Someone needs to teach this kid to type. It may wind up being you.

  


CC: hello mr ar   
CC: nice to meet you   
TT: It's nice to meet you too, Chell. May I call you Chell?  
CC: yup becuz its my name  
TT: Okay, Chell. Tell me about yourself.

On the one hand, you probably should have let her go with Roxy if you weren't going to talk to her. On the other hand, you are. You 2.0. You start to pack. Equius will want his stuff back eventually. You also monitor their conversation because that's what a responsible parent does.

In absence of one, you will have to do.

  


CC: i have a mama and a dada and i live in a white house with a white fence   
CC: i take dance lessons with miss porrim on wednesday   
CC: my favourite colour is yellow and my favourite season is spring   
CC: my favourite cookies are mamas becuz hers are the best   
TT: Your mother is very talented. Do you know about her special gift?  
CC: um do you mean her totems  
CC: im not supposed to play with them  
TT: Yes, I mean her totems. She's a Shaman, Chell. She calls on the spirits to protect her. I'm sure she's doing it right now.  
CC: she knows a bunny spirit  
CC: sebby

Wait, is that what Sebby is? You peek around the corner to look at her stuffed rabbit. It doesn't seem to really notice you. Maybe it was just something Jane told her.

  


TT: That's fascinating, Chell. What else did she tell you?   
CC: she said that if anything happened to her id find someone to help  
CC: i did becuz i found dada and he's going to help her  
TT: He sure will, and you know what? He helped her before too.

No, don't tell her that, you asshole. Don't lie. Don't--

  


CC: i knew mr strider helped mama becuz she told me before   
CC: mama was taken by bad men before i was born   
CC: then he found her and made her safe   
TT: He did do that. I think he's forgotten that he did.   
CC: but it was the most important thing for mama  
CC: she said it was the second best day of her life  
TT: Was the first best day the one when you were born, buttercup?  
CC: yeah  
CC: how did you know  
TT: Because I'm very smart.

You wipe your eyes. Jane doesn't do guilt, but she's wrong. She has to be wrong.

  


TT: Chell, do you see that room over there?   
CC: yeah i see it  
TT: That's where your dada is. Go give him a hug. He's a giant lovable doofus.  
CC: ok

You can hear Chell stumble over some of the metal before she makes it into your room, and she hugs your knees. You lift her into your lap and hug her tightly.

“Why're you crying?” she asks. You feel her take off your shades and put them down. You just hug her closer.

“Because I'm not a good man,” you tell her. “Jane shouldn't believe in me the way she does. I... Dave...”

She pets your hair and makes shushing noises. She's comforting you, the little adult, whereas you're the idiot man child.

Sweet zombie dragon president, you don't deserve either of them.

\--

“Tell me where it is.”

“No.”

Impact.

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Do you think that we won't kill them?”

“You'll kill them anyway.”

“Not the girl.”

“You don't know where she is.”

“Don't we?”

\--

Eventually, you calm down. You let Chell wipe your face with Sebby's ears. You're still pretty sure it's not a totem, but sometimes even the nicest people have to tell comforting lies.

“I still need to pack,” you say, and Chell climbs off your lap. “Why don't you keep talking to AR, and I'll finish up here. It won't be all that much longer.”

“Okay,” she says. She gives you a look, wide-eyed and serious. “No more crying.”

“No more crying,” you agree. She gives you another hug and hops off of your lap, making her way back to the laptop.

  


TT: That was adorable.   
TT: I don't even have it in me to tell you to shove it.  
TT: Good, because it's true.

You watch Chell and AR chat back and forth. She tells him about her days that aren't filled with kidnapping and drama, he tells her some funny stories from when you and Dave were young. Some of them you don't even remember. Maybe he's making them up, or maybe his memory is better than yours.

You have one bag full of clothes and throw it towards the entrance. You make your way to your rig and start packing it away. This is going to be heavy, but your weight capacity is good. It's going to strain your torso, but your arms have got it.

You wonder if you might have some of your old toys around. Chell seemed enthusiastic about screwing and welding when Equius was working on you, maybe she'd like your first tinkering kit. You can replace the worn down parts.

You see her start to squint, and hold a hand up.

“What's wrong?” you ask, just as AR does.

She types it first.

  


CC: theres a funny light on the screen  
TT: Funny light?

You look at her screen and see the light. You look to the window. You see the helicopter.

“Chell, get down now!”

She dives to the ground, into the pile of washers and parts, just as the helicopter opens fire. You move faster than you have before, leaping to shield her with your body. AR disappears from the laptop moments before it explodes into fragments.

“Dada! Dada!!” she cries, and it breaks your heart. You can barely hear her for the sound of spinning magazines and chopper blades.

“I've got you,” you say, yelling over the gunfire. You wait for the firing to stop and dash towards the door. You grab your clothes bag in your other hand, using it as a shield. You kick it open and throw yourself into the hall, twisting so that when you hit the floor, Chell is still in your arms.

She's screaming in fear, and there's no time to stop to comfort her.

“It's going to be okay,” you promise her. “I'll keep you safe.” You wish you had time to scream too. You hear the gun spin up again and go flat, pointing your back at the wall.

“Oh no you fucking don't!”

The sound is faint, through an apartment, which means the yelling is loud, and there's more gunfire. It doesn't hit your apartment, and you take this time to grab your bag again and head towards the stairs. No elevator, just the stairs.

The sound gets quiet, so all you can hear is Chell's shaky sobs, and you stroke her hair. Something scrapes your hand and you realize there's glass in her hair, and you hate them. You feel a lot, mostly guilt and self-hatred, but you loathe the person who made this hard for you.

“We're going to have to get you cleaned up,” you say. “It's going to be okay.”

She nods a little, and you head out of your apartment building. The sound, all but gone in the stairwell, now swells up again, and you hear Roxy yelling.

She has an auto-gun in the back of her truck. She's got it pointed upwards, firing at the helicopter. You stay in cover as Roxy yells and swears at the sky.

  


TT: We have the situation presently under control, Mr. Strider. What is your status?   
TT: Covered in fucking glass, my hand's scraped. Chell has glass in her hair.   
TT: My main system is destroyed and my apartment is trashed.   
TT: Other than that, just fucking peachy.  
TT: Affirmative. Updating Ms. Lalonde with your status. Stand by.  
TT: No data loss from the destruction of your system. I've got it all, Dirk, it's safe, along with Chell's account settings.  
TT: Thanks.

Another full burst of gunfire, and the helicopter is gone, Chell is still crying, and you're sitting on a filthy piece of concrete, picking glass out of your daughter's hair with your bare, metallic fingers.

You realize that enough is enough, and this means war.

**Author's Note:**

> You have no idea how much joy I experienced when I realized Dirk/Jane is called Portalshipping.


End file.
